Monday

A friend asked me about the story I mentioned in the last post, how I would write it now, if I was to do so and this has been on my mind all day.

I would not write it again, is my first response. I needed to write it then as a sort of dare for myself, a push-back against the things that scared me. There are elements that I am still mildly curious about but I am no longer frantically confused. I think because the truth of it all is this: it does not matter, or at least it does not matter as much as I initially thought.

Being in love, being telepathic, being miserable, being manic, being delusional, being afraid, being magical, being false. None of it matters that much. The demands of the everyday supersede everything. I can be broke and anxious, I can be wealthy and stable, but regardless, I still have to get up and take care of the people who rely on me. That is the core of everything, that life trots along no matter how fast or slow we feel like going. It maintains a constant patter and we either fall in sync with the rhythm or go through life distorted.

The story I would write now would go like this:

The world is vast and tiny.
Our minds are vast and tiny.
Our hearts are vast and tiny.
Life is infinite but our bodies are finite.
Love is infinite but situations are finite.
In the end, nothing matters because everything matters.